


summer days

by mountsky



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Barista Hoshiumi Kourai, Best Friends, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Summer, in which I make all my characters have mundane jobs kthxbye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:40:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24541738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mountsky/pseuds/mountsky
Summary: Kourai gets freckles in the sun.Sachirou knows this. Knows this well enough to have a spray bottle of spf in the front pocket of his bag (50 factor). He knows this well enough to have a snapback folded in his backpocket. He knows this well enough to not be star struck every time it happens.But he is, every time, without fail.-or the one where Hirugami Sachirou is boyfriend material but won't let himself be.
Relationships: Hirugami Sachirou/Hoshiumi Kourai
Comments: 23
Kudos: 156





	summer days

**Author's Note:**

> happy hiruhoshi day! have this awkwardly written ficlet.
> 
> fun fact: I can't write anything but these fake ass cinema-style pieces now
> 
> fun fact 2: I was listening to [Lovesick](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ThZeAyH_x8) by BANKS whilst I wrote this I highly recommend 
> 
> fun fact 3: this be my first hiruhoshi but hopefully not my last? 
> 
> anyway ENJOY, let me know what you thought

His summer days are filled with him.

There’s a moment with Korai, Sachirou realizes, where everything sort of hangs in the balance. All the thoughts he categorises, overthinks, sorts and puts away, they scatter. Disperse. Leave him numb and speechless. It happens when he watches Korai on the court, when he watches his heels dig into the ground and when he hears the squeak of his trainers against the wood. It used to happen once or twice, when Sachirou’s not paying attention to his own heart. It used to just happen when they were playing volleyball.

It happens now when he least expects it. Like when Kourai is laughing, head thrown back, cheeks beaming. It happens when Korai turns to look at the sunset, his eyes turning forest green. It happens when Kourai breathes. Sachirou’s own breathe hitches in response and it takes everything that he is not to lurch through the moment, not to ruin everything they have, not to grab his best friend and shudder through a half stuttered attempt to articulate the overwhelming lurch in his heart.

Sachirou is in love with his best friend.

He looks at Kourai and he aches with it, aches with the effort of keeping his fingers clenched into fists by his side, his cheeks hurt with the effort of resisting every awed smile. He looks at Kourai and can’t stop.

* * *

Their dynamic is as easy to fall into as it is to breathe. Sachirou takes his position, slightly behind Kouria, watching him, watching him blossom. Supporting him. Steadfast and secure. It’s harder in the summer, to stay watching. They spend most of their time together.

Once or twice he’ll reach out, try to hold the rays of Kourai’s sun in his fingers, and they’ll slip straight through. Kourai isn’t his, he reminds himself, burtally. Sachirou is nothing to someone like Kourai, someone so vibrant, so strong, so self-aware. He knows his role in their dynamic.

Sachirou looks at him, because it’s the only thing he can do.

* * *

Kourai gets freckles in the sun.  
  
Sachirou knows this. Knows this well enough to have a spray bottle of spf in the front pocket of his bag (50 factor). He knows this well enough to have a snapback folded in his backpocket. He knows this well enough to not be star struck every time it happens.  
  
But he is, every time, without fail.

“Sachirou,” Kourai will say, and maybe he’ll reach out and pat his cheek, or he’ll huff, or he’ll roll his eyes and Sachirou will be stuck staring at the heavy lashes that deepen his eyes and wondering if he’s ever going to get used to the overwhelming want in his chest. “Stop staring, loser.”

The moment hangs in the air, as heavy as the humid summer air-  
  
And Sachirou will smile, and he’ll laugh, and he’ll strangle down the aching ‘no’ lodged in his throat.

* * *

The popsicle is melting over his fingers. He has stupid little stubby thumbs that are surprisingly deft at wrapping his fingers for afternoon practice.

Kourai doesn’t care about the juice, dripping on his thigh. It’s late afternoon, the sun’s setting, glinting off Kourai’s work badge, the ugly green Starbuck’s cap hiding the sparkle in his eyes. It’s a summer afternoon, just like any other. And Sachirou is in love.

“Shit,” Kourai hisses, lifting his hand to his mouth to lick at the juice, little pink tongue darting out. It could end up ingrained into his memory, it could drive him insane. Except that Sachirou’s gaze travels up, passed the obscenity of his lips and to the bridge of his nose. Scrunched up. Cute.

His heart beats a little harder and he punches Kourai’s arm.

“What was that for?” Kourai snaps, as expected. He looks fucking feral. Sachirou wants to hold him until he bursts.

“You wasted the popsicle I got you,” he says calmly instead, and the heat in Kourai’s eyes calms a little.

“Yeah, well, what kind of friend doesn’t even get the right flavour, Sachirou,” Kourai claps back, his eyes crinkling with the smile he sends his way. The dimple in Kourai’s right cheek makes a rare appearance and Sachirou falls a little harder.

The worst part is that Sachirou had spent ten minutes in front of the freezer. He’d picked up Kourai’s favourite flavour, lychee, dropped it, picked it up again, and agonised over something he’d never had to think about before. Agonised over not being so obvious.

He smiles and swallows the lump in his throat.

* * *

The weird thing about his freckles is that they mostly pop up on his shoulders, save the three that link across the bridge of his nose, disappearing when Sachirou says something ridiculous enough to make Korai scrunch his face up.  
  
And so he doesn’t feel quite as bad when his mind runs, when he lets the fantasy of pushing up the strap of Kora’s tank play out, of pressing his lips to his sun-warmed skin, over freckles and blushed pink and feather light hair brushing over the tip of his nose.  
  
It’s not as terrible as it could be, Sachirou consoles himself, at least he’s not fantasising about Kourai’s lips. The way he swipes the back of his hand over them to get rid of mango juice, the way they stretch into a smirk when Sachirou walks into the cafe he’s working at, the little pout when Sachirou teases and keeps teasing because he’s shaken by every raw, genuine expression on Kourai’s face and he’s always desperate, aching, for more.  
  
So he thinks about Kourai’s shoulders. And counts the freckles there instead.

* * *

This summer is hotter than most. Longer than most. He spends most of his days laid on the decking on his backyard, weakly fanning himself with his dad’s curled up newspaper.

It’s not like Sachirou isn’t introspective. But laid back like this, feeling the sun warm his skin, listening to words his therapist had said and letting the thoughts wander for a little, his mind gets stuck on a loop of Kourai, Kourai, Kourai.

For a second, he thinks that summer is Kourai’s season. And then he thinks back over the last few weeks. Kourai’s skin burns, turns bright pink. He whines about the heat if he’s not wearing short-sleeves, gets so tired out that sometimes Sachirou has to heft him on his back and all but drag him home. His hands clam up and he wipes them on Sachirou’s shirt without a care. His upper lip is always dotted with perspiration. Kourai hates summer. So why-

Summer is their season, he realises.

It makes his entire body freeze, prickling. Every year Sachirou had looked forward to summer. Summer where he was allowed to pat sunscreen over Kourai’s cheeks, his fingers stroking over his skin. Summer where he’s allowed to carry him when he’s tired, when he’s allowed to be the only one Kourai can stand, when he knows Kourai is looking forward to Sachirou bringing him a gift in his lunch break. Summer when he can be completely in love with his best friend without the pressure of school breathing down his neck. Summer when he can blame the flush on his cheeks to the heat, the twitching of his fingers on the faint breeze.

His summer days are Kourai, brandishing an iced latte and chewing on ice like it was gum. His summer days are spent learning how to make bunny apple slices from his mom to slide to Kourai over the cafe counter. His summer days are spent yearning, his summer days are Kourai, his summer days are filled with him.

His summer days are spent trying his hardest not get caught watching him.

* * *

  
It takes weeks in the making. Weeks of wanting and wanting and wanting. Weeks of realising day after day that he loves Kourai. He’s awed by him, he respects him, he’s proud of him, and Sachirou loves him so much It doesn’t seem possible. Weeks of being hyperaware of every touch, weeks of laying in his garden and dreaming about tapping his fingers against the freckles on his shoulders.

The sun had already set, the breeze is cool enough that the hairs on his arms stick up. Kourai’s hair looks purple in this lighting. It would be funny if it wasn’t so beautiful.

His heart had trembled way more today than usual. Kourai’s shift had finished early than usual. He’d left the Starbucks with a cup of ice and grabbed Sachirou’s hand from where he’d been waiting against the wall. “We’re swimming.” He’d said, and Sachirou had raised his brow, scoffed, followed him like he was expected to do.

At first it’d been refreshing, throwing off his shirt to run into the cool ocean. The sun had been high and hot enough to annoy him. At first he’d tried his hardest to keep his eyes from wandering. But that had been hours ago and now-

Kourai’s still in the water and Sachirou’s mind hurtles and hurtles and hurtles. There’s a voice in his mind, rattling around, telling him he’s being ridiculous. Telling him he needs to get a grip. Telling him he’s going to ruin his friendship.

But there’s another voice that’s so much louder. Obsessed with the way Kourai’s eyes look even darker wet. Obsessed with the way the water’s reflection glimmers on his skin, freckled, pinking.

It’s his role to stand back, he reminds himself, curling his fingers into the sand, as Kourai runs out the water laughing to flop beside him.

Kourai isn’t his, he reminds himself, as Kourai throws the bottle of sunscreen at him and quirks a brow pointedly.

Just friends, he repeats, like a mantra, fingers light and gentle as they rub over his shoulders, the tip of his nose.

He’s staring at the curve of Kourai’s cupid bow when it happens. He’s struck dumb watching Kourai when Kourai grabs his face and tilts it up, harsh, feral, insistent.

Sachirou looks at him, heart thundering, and he realises that Kourai is looking back.

“Idiot,” Kourai whispers. The moment the hangs in the air, as heavy as the humid summer air. But Kourai is looking at him, Kourai is watching him, Kourai’s eyes travel over Sachirou’s brows, his cheek bones, his nose. His lips. And Sachirou feels it punch the air from his stomach. “You’re not so subtle, you know.”

Sachirou’s eyes widen.

There’s nothing but them in this moment. There’s nothing but Sachirou watching Kourai and Kourai, somehow, miraculously, amazingly, watching him back.

Kourai smiles at him, and the want that Sachirou had been repressing, tamping down behind an iron wall, crests so viciously its all he can do to breathe.

“Kourai,” he manages. It feels like freedom. It feels like permission. He’s free to want, he’s free to ache, and yearn. He’s free to stare into Kourai’s eyes with everything he’s been feeling for years. Free to smile against the wrist pressed against his face when Kourai swallows.

“Do you like me, Sachirou?” Kourai says, blunt. Fearless. He’s always been fearless. It’s part of why Sachirou respects him so much. He knows Sachirou, knows this could ruin their friendship, knows the risks, the consequences. And he jumps anyway.

“I love you, Kourai-kun,” Sachirou says, breathless.

There’s a second where Sachirou gets to see Kourai’s face morph from determination, to shock, to _joy._ Then Kourai pounces, knocks their heads together hard enough to make him hiss, and then Kourai kisses him and its a mess. It’s uncoordinated, its reeks of inexperience. It’s terrible. But it’s Kourai, it’s Kourai, it’s everything. There's no apology for the bruise he's going to be sporting in the morning, no coyness for the tongue he'd accidentally bitten. 

Sachirou’s arm comes up to frame his body, to keep him pressed against his chest, to keep him close because he can barely believe it. They’re hot, too hot to be pressed so close together. It doesn’t matter. Kourai’s gotten suncream over his chest. It doesn’t matter.

He cups Kourai’s face, slows their pace with the tenderest of kisses he can muster. He tries to say it all, tries to explain that it’s somehow so much more than love. And Kourai shivers in his arms.

“Idiot,” he says, and Sachirou swallows. “I love you, too.”

* * *

His summer days, his summer nights; they’re filled with him.

They’re filled with sweaty hugs in his backyard, their filled with Kourai fanning him with his dad’s newspaper. They’re filled with disaster attempts in the kitchen because despite being able to make insane drink requests in the cafe, Kourai struggles with dalgona so hard its laughable. They’re filled with kisses that taste of lychee ice cream, they're filled with piggy backs and warm, chapped, lips against his temple.

His life is filled with watching him, loving him, holding him. 

Sachirou doesn't know what will come next, and for once he doesn't spend hours analysing over it.

Because the summer will always be theirs, always filled with them. 

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ohsue3)


End file.
